


caned and drained, harshly profaned

by lovelyorbent



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Slut Shaming, Unsafe Sex, just a little casual slut shaming, lube but not enough lube yaknow, ripper just absolutely rails spike in a dirty pub bathroom, unfair maligning of the scottish people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyorbent/pseuds/lovelyorbent
Summary: There was some little prick at the bar who was looking at him. White hair half-slicked back, fine-boned hand wrapped around a beer. Razor features. Snakebite piercings. Wrapped up in a long leather coat. When Ripper made eye contact with him, the thin mouth turned up into a little sneer, and then there was a pink flash as the tongue stroked provocatively over the line of the sharp teeth inside.Ripper grinned back at him, because — well, what was the harm?
Relationships: Rupert Giles/Spike
Comments: 17
Kudos: 19





	caned and drained, harshly profaned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SummerFrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/gifts).



> summerfrost and i were talking about how punk 70s spike and punk 70s giles should have accidentally randomly fucked one time and through a confluence of events not noticed who the other person was and then they meet back up in sunnydale later and spike is like oh no i had stranger sex with a future librarian AND he dommed me
> 
> so here's that fic. dedicated to that slutty little tongue waggle spike does in fool for love. title from let's get hurt by nofx

**_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1978._ **

**_☾☾☾_ **

Of all the places on earth, Dru’d left him in _Scotland_. What could there possibly be in Scotland that’d justify her haring off on one of her little solo adventures? It was a country full of bloody sheep-fucking, tartan-wearing, bagpipe-playing jocky bastards. And it was raining. Of course it was fucking raining.

Well, all right, it was probably raining in England, too, but at least in England he wouldn’t have to see all these Scottish people. And in any case, he was _in_ Scotland at the moment, and sodden, and he swore on the grave of someone or other who he was supposed to care about that if this pub didn’t have a half-decent beer on tap he’d murder the bartender.

It did. The place was grimy and a bit crowded — exactly as a bar should be as far as he was concerned — and everybody was miserable and dripping all over, and it was near midnight and there was some god-awful live band playing. But they had a half-decent beer on tap, so he opened a tab he had no intention of ever paying and told the bartender to keep it coming. He’d eaten already — girl in Hollyrood Park who’d had the misfortune of being incredibly pretty and not quite smart enough to run when a strange bloke told her he’d give her a head start — but he glanced around at the crowd anyhow. It wasn’t a demon bar, not one of the dedicated ones, anyway, but there were a fair few vamps here, on account of the fact that it was a dive. Couple more human-looking demons. There was an incubus in the corner who looked like the girl whose throat his tongue was stuck down was probably about to be his next meal, and a gaggle of warlocks in the corner, smelling powerfully magick-y, which made him want to sneeze a bit.

There were also a bunch of idiot punk teenage humans who should _not_ be wearing chokers in a room with — count ‘em — eight vampires. Those things were just lingerie for your neck, as far as he was concerned. One of them had on a Ramones t-shirt he actually quite liked, soft and worn and skintight. His one had been ripped a few weeks back by Dru in a fit of pique. Maybe he’d see if he could squeeze in an after-dinner snack and nick it. Wasn’t like Dru was here to call him greedy, after all.

If he didn’t already have Nikki Wood’s duster, which was all he was ever going to need, he’d like the jacket the kid was wearing too. Studded leather. Nice patina.

The bartender slid him another beer and the bands started to switch with a rolling clatter of equipment as one set picked up and the other moved in. The warlocks cheered raucously as the new band set up, and one of the vampires slipped out the back door with a tall, skinny boy who was dressed in a striped sweater and jeans. He’d really like some bloody company for the night, himself, he thought, watching her tease the boy’s shirtfront with one long finger as she pulled him into the alley. He wasn’t well-suited to being alone, and Dru would expect stories about blood and sex and mayhem when she came back, anyhow. It’d been near a week since she’d fucked off, which meant she was due back in another few or he’d have to hunt her down, and also meant it had been a week since he’d had anybody in bed with him.

Wasn’t like he couldn’t go longer. He’d gone nearly thirty years without the one time, after all. But he didn’t _want_ to, and he couldn’t stand Dru telling him her stories when she got back if he didn’t have any of his own, anyway.

He scanned the crowd again. Looking for a human. Maybe a demon. No vamps, though, something warm; the rain was bloody freezing and although the drops on his face had dried, it was still clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, turning his skin bone-cold. He could _use_ something warm.

His eyes settled on one of the girls who was ignoring the band that was setting up. Slim shoulders, smooth dark skin, long braids down her back and wearing a red shirt that was ripped so artfully it was barely clinging onto life. Looked brilliant on her, all bright and sharp in the dim, smoky room, under the orange-tinged lightbulbs, cigarette dangling out of her mouth. She was writing something on the table in front of her, and that might be a good entry, asking to read it. And oh, if he didn’t eat that other kid, he’d bet her mouth tasted like beer and chips and she would hardly notice if he bit her lip a little, sipped her sweet and low and —

There was another girl at her table now, coming off the dance floor all sweaty and panting. And then they were kissing, brazen in the middle of the pub, as the new band started playing. Which was a nice sight to watch, but he didn’t really feel like chatting them into including him at the moment and two was definitely too many to eat when he’d already had something earlier.

“Gimme another,” he said, and the bartender slid another glass to him almost as if he’d been ready before Spike had said anything. Good service. He’d have to nick someone’s wallet and leave a tip. Maybe the bloke in the corner passed out on the table? He was snockered, he wouldn’t notice. Then again, someone had probably already stolen his wallet, since he was snockered and wouldn’t notice.

Beer in hand, he walked across the bar to poke his head out into the back alley. Smoking in the joint, that was fine, but he didn’t care to do it at the bar, and anyway, he wanted to check and see if that vamp had left some cash on her skinny boy when she’d dumped him in the alley.

No body at all to be seen, though. Just _like_ female vamps, always biting and leaving ‘em. Dru never did that, but that was because Dru liked the death of it. Most just wanted the blood. He smoked his cigarette anyhow, body hanging half-out the door, shaded from the rain by the awning, and listened to the band start playing behind him. They were better than the last one, but not by much. But the warlocks were hollering anyhow. It was probably a bunch of friends of theirs, although the band smelled normal to the unassuming nose.

On his way back in, he realized that his spot at the bar had been snapped up by a couple of girls with torn black jeans. He picked a different one, near the end of the bar — regrettably, nearer the warlocks, who were still making noise, although no longer cheering — and glanced around the room again. Singer of the band wasn’t bad-looking, but he was obviously making eyes at one of the girls crowded up against the stage. The incubus had disappeared, apparently while Spike had been smoking, and the girl he’d left behind was looking loopy and dazed. She’d be dead before she got home, most likely, trying to walk the dark streets in a state like that. If he hadn’t learned his lesson about fucking an incubus’ sloppy seconds he’d probably consider it just for ease — they were always properly horny after a sex demon had had its way with them, but they never bloody came, which was just no fun.

If Dru would just stay in his bed like a good girl he wouldn’t be in this position, he thought somewhat resentfully. Instead she was probably off playing with some pixies somewhere. Maybe she was in Ireland; she always claimed she felt closer to Angelus there. That teenager in the Ramones shirt was looking like his luck might be up, although due to his tragic case of acne, Spike thought it likely he’d die unshagged.

“Another round,” said a voice down the bar from him, loudly so it could be heard over the music. It caught his ear only because it was English too, caught somewhere in that middle-class uni-boy state between one affectation and the other. “And two whiskeys.”

Voice belonged to a tall young man in a white t-shirt and jeans, dark-haired and flushed with drunkenness. He looked dry, which meant he’d been in the pub for some time, and one of his forearms, where he rested them on the counter as he waited for the barman, was striped with red. He was a little familiar, and his left hand was drumming convulsively on the bar as if it was still full of energy — ah, so he’d been on stage. The bassist, probably, judging by that impression the guitar had left on his arm. There was a tattoo on the inside of his bicep, visible only when he shifted his body backwards away from the counter. Looked odd —

Ah, and when he picked up the drinks and retreated to his table, Spike could see why. He was one of the warlocks, which meant it was probably some warlock-y thing. Which also meant — he snorted — that they’d been cheering their friends _off_ the stage rather than cheering friends on. Well, he could appreciate a bit of heckling between mates. When the man — boy? He couldn’t be a day over twenty-five — finished handing out drinks and slid back into his chair with a glass of whiskey in each hand, he looked up for a moment and saw Spike looking at him, grinning his amusement.

It would be polite to look away and pretend he’d never looked at all. Spike wasn’t particularly polite, so he looked him dead in the eye and ran his tongue along the sharp ridge of his teeth. To his mild surprise, he got no reaction at all for a moment, and then a curling smirk just before the man bolted back one of the glasses of whiskey, exposing the long stubble-rough line of his throat and then smacking the glass onto the table. The kid next to him, ganglier and more hawkish, clapped him on the back and the two of them laughed at something that Spike hadn’t been listening to.

He turned away to watch the band for a few minutes. The singer of this one was fine, at least, but the rest of them were falling behind. There were two vampires in the corner who were about sixty percent of the way to fucking to the irregular drumline anyhow, and for a moment he had a pang of missing Dru. When he glanced back at the warlocks’ table, the bassist was staring at him.

♝♝♝

There was some little prick at the bar who was _looking_ at him. White hair half-slicked back, fine-boned hand wrapped around a beer. Razor features. Snakebite piercings. Wrapped up in a long leather coat. When Ripper made eye contact with him, the thin mouth turned up into a little sneer, and then there was a pink flash as the tongue stroked provocatively over the line of the sharp teeth inside.

Ripper grinned back at him, because — well, what was the harm? He’d just played a set, he was sweaty and a bit keyed up, and this fellow was attractive enough, all lean lines and makeup accentuating his features. He took his whiskey at a gulp, and when he looked back, the man was glancing towards the band, and then back to see Ripper’s eyes on him. This time the grin the man shot over was downright flirtatious. Which was nice: it had been a bit of time since a man other than Ethan had flirted with him, and Ethan flirted with everything that moved. He was an all right shag too, particularly if you were high — well, better than all right — but then again sometimes a bloke just wanted to have some sex that _wasn’t_ powered by drugs or chaos magic. Which was to say sex you fully remembered afterwards.

“Something caught your eye, Ripper?” Ethan asked, elbowing him. Little shit was too perceptive for his own good, but he didn’t sound put out, so at least he wasn’t going to play the jealous lover. It would be a bit rich coming from him anyhow, jealousy. Or the word “lover.”

“That one,” he replied, and jerked his chin in that direction. The thin lips on the man at the bar curled, and his tongue flicked out again, almost reptilian, a little tease of flesh that came with a bite of silver in the middle. The stool he was sitting on swiveled independently from his shoulders, which were still facing the bar: one hip jutting out from underneath his torn shirt, and it seemed that beneath the too-big leather coat, he was hiding a body that statues might envy. Pale flawless skin that looked almost tan next to the white, white hair. The strip of belly the hem of his shirt revealed was solid and slim, not an inch of him spare.

There was something perilous about this bloke, about the look in his eyes, but it was hard to notice it when those leanly muscled legs strained at the denim they were encased in and then the body was pivoting away again, hidden behind the long coat once more. Ethan snorted. “Might have guessed it.”

Ripper raised an eyebrow at him and downed the second shot of whiskey. It was true enough he had a type. Young and pretty and dangerous. The type who looked like they would be best shown off with their wrists tied to the headboard. This one looked like he would wear handcuffs like jewelry, not that he’d bothered in bringing any handcuffs to Edinburgh.

At the bar, the long, smooth neck tipped back to let the liquor run down it, and he watched the bob of the Adam’s apple and thought about licking it. Phil elbowed him. “Good lord, Ripper, if you stare any longer he’ll be bent over the bar with his trousers around his ankles.”

He grinned, imagining it. Ethan leaned over him to pat Phil on the arm. “You’re just whetting his appetite, Pip.”

The man at the bar wasn’t paying him any attention anymore, looking idly between the band and the rest of the room. He was rather focused on a couple in the corner who were quite clearly working themselves towards a clothed climax. Ripper looked at them too. The woman was wearing a dress that belonged on a rockabilly and her partner’s eyes glinted golden in the shadow under her chin.

Vampires. They never were very good at hiding. Mostly because they didn’t keep up with the times, but sometimes because they didn’t keep up with the faces. From the Watcher training he’d sworn off, he could recall that it was typically younger vampires who lost control that way, and older ones who lost track of fashions. From a field study perspective, that probably meant a dominant female who had sired her companion. Not that he gave a toss about vampires. So long as they were shagging each other in the corner and not eyeing his throat, he was happy to focus on other things.

The clear blue eyes of the man at the bar probably didn’t see anything amiss about them. Young couple — one of them not particularly fashion-forward — having a bit of a romp in the cheap seats. Judging by the way he was watching them, he wouldn’t turn them down if invited to join. His fingers were drumming on the counter to the rhythm the band ought to be playing at, though, so he couldn’t be too absorbed in them.

Was he hard under that coat from watching them? Wanting to know, Ripper got up to go back over to the bar for another glass of whiskey, but the damned leather was in the way no matter what angle you viewed it from. He got two shots instead and slid one, rim in hand, down across the bar towards the man there, crowding him from behind, the inside of his arm brushing his shoulder, fingers skating briefly across the back of his neck before he walked back to his table and his friends.

The man was cold, probably from the torrential bloody rain. The black shirt he was only wearing insomuch as there were still some threads holding it together was wet and clinging, in any case; that would give anyone a chill. He didn’t even look up when Ripper’s fingers kissed the nape of his neck, just smirked so ferociously that it was almost audible, and when he got back to the table, Ripper looked again, watching the elegant fingers pluck the drink off the counter and knock it back before the man stuck his finger in the bottom of the glass and turned it upside down to twirl it there, drawing eyes to the flex of his hand as he spun the container.

There was whiskey dripping down that bony wrist now, in a delicate way that made a man think of catching that drop on his tongue.

Boys like that — though it was hard to tell how old he was, between the black delicately rimming his eyes and the obscuring duster he might be anywhere from 16 to 35 — _men_ like that, they knew exactly where they were drawing the eye, and they thought it put them in control. In a sense it was even true. After all, Ripper was the one staring, and the other fellow was looking at the barback.

He took his own shot and kept looking. Might as well, after all. How else was one supposed to catch the sidelong sharp-eyed glances that gave away the game? The way the hand, whiskey-sticky, caressed the little errant curls at the back of the neck where Ripper’s fingers had been. There was a spell that would make that real, that lingering feeling. Leave warm little sparks where the touch had been. Of course, after a few hours, it would itch, and there was a chance you’d have it permanently.

Ethan elbowed him again. “Not like you to wait.” _This_ time he sounded jealous. Ripper glanced at him. Looked him in the eye, at the thin rakish curves of his face, and could see it.

“Building anticipation,” he replied, and knew his smile was wolfish when he turned it on his friends from the way they all twitched. “ _He’ll_ wait for me.”

The man at the bar had twisted in his chair again so that his legs were visible under the cover of the coat. Crossed at the ankles in heavy combat boots. At the words, as if on cue, he got up from the bar and walked away. Even under the black leather it was possible to see the sauntering roll of hips.

Ethan snickered. He always did love it when Ripper was wrong.

Ripper quelled him with a glare, and got his grin back when the lean form turned — catching his eye directly — leaned back against the wall behind him, seemingly uncaring that it looked as if it might once have been splattered in something disgusting — and tilted his head slowly and fluidly towards the corridor that opened behind him, dimlit by a neon sign that said MEN. “Bring my guitar back to the hotel,” he told Ethan, and got up from the table.

Randy got a pinched look, obviously thinking of his high later. “You’ll be back?”

“In time to put you to sleep,” he answered. Eyghon would walk whenever they did the ritual — more and more often these days, and it was easier to bring him forth. He wasn’t worried about Randy missing his chance, but he supposed Randy might be. Which was his prerogative, just as it was _his_ prerogative to get a suckjob in the loo from a Scottish pretty-boy punk.

The blue eyes pinned him from across the room, and the soft pink tongue slipped out again, all the way to the barbell in the center of it, and stroked the corner of the sharp mouth before the man was turning and disappearing into the dark.

Ripper followed him, wending his way across the room and ignoring the awful music. When he got there, the neon of the sign was lighting up the dramatic curves of the face of the man, and a cigarette was warm and glowing between his lips, shining off the piercings below. In one smooth motion, the body pushed off the wall and stubbed out the light, strolled to him and pressed him back against the wall by the shoulders. It was too dark to see much, but the rumble of the voice below his ear was warm and sweet. “Your place or mine?”

English, not Scottish. Wasn’t that a funny coincidence. Shorter than him and with moves that would make a panther look clumsy. Young and pretty and dangerous. Ripper took him by the back of the neck and dragged him into a hard kiss, shoving him backwards through the door under the sign.

The beauty of fucking high was that it felt like the end of the world. The beauty of fucking sober was that it was sharp and real. He was tipsy and it was the best of both worlds. Hands on his hips pushed him up against the sinks, sudden enough that he had to catch himself on the ceramic as the kiss broke. He grinned to match his partner.

It was always sweetest when they were lively.

☾☾☾

The bassist followed him back to the loo, and Spike realized that there might be some actual danger in this fellow noticing if he didn’t have a reflection. Not that he didn’t think he could take one practically adolescent sorcerer, but with magic users there was always the danger you’d end up cursed in the bargain. The _last_ time he’d been cursed he hadn’t been able to get it up for two months, and Dru had nearly left him. So he waited in the dark little hallway outside the door, smoking, and snagged the bloke by the shoulders when he walked in, pressed him back against the wall with moves that weren’t so sudden as to trigger his prey-fear, but were inexorable enough to avoid resistance.

“Your place or mine?” he purred, shimmying up close, knowing full-well he didn’t have a place to take the bloke back to, but that a hotel room would do in a pinch. Close-up, he didn’t smell so acridly like magic as they did when they were running in a pack, but there was still something about the taste of him that crackled.

A disbelieving snort from the bassist, and then one hand was shoving open the door of the WC and the other was dragging him in by the back of the neck for a kiss with teeth in it. Well, all right, Spike thought. We can work with this. He opened his mouth into the kiss and stumbled backwards when he was pushed into the loo, taking the bassist with him and being certain they remained connected at the mouth. The place was bloody filthy. Smelled like piss, unidentified grime on the floor, the mirror was cloudy and the sinks were cracked.

He put his hands on the other man’s hips and pushed him backwards into the sinks with enough force to have him scrambling to catch himself on the ledge, and gave him a huge grin before he stepped back, making sure to roll his hips as he shrugged out of his coat and flung it up to hang over one of the open stall doors. When the bassist started to stalk forward to claim him again, Spike crooned, “Naughty boy,” and crowded him back against the sinks.

In the mirror behind them, the bassist’s back muscles rolled under his shirt as he was guided into place by nothing at all.

Those string-callused hands reached out for him again, demanding, and Spike slipped out of them and to his knees, down below the level of the mirrors. “Hold on tight to that sink, love,” he murmured, and ripped open the belt, the button-fly to get at the thick bulge in the fabric under them.

“Don’t tease,” ordered the bassist harshly when Spike fit his teeth lightly around the hardening shape of him inside his pants, tongue dragging wet across the cotton.

“What fun is that?” Spike asked, but fished him out of his briefs without further ado. He smelled like the blood blooming under his skin, rushing in to fill his prick out red and tight with wanting. Smelled like smoke and clean sweat and chaos and ah, it had been too long since he’d had one of these in his mouth. Lovely and warm, too. Pulse just under the surface.

“Bloody hell,” the bassist swore, as Spike took him down. His mouth would be smoke-warm just now, and warmer once he’d sucked this enough, and in any case, he’d lost his touch if anyone was thinking about the precise body temperature of the mouth around them. One of those rough hands twisted its way into his hair and pulled just enough to make him hurt, just enough to control where he could and could not move his head.

Bloke must not be very familiar with vampire lore, Spike thought, if he hadn’t noticed yet, so that meant he thought he had the upper hand, probably. He was bigger, physically, than Spike — taller, broader — and he had magic, too. He was probably used to getting away with being in charge, even so young as he was. Those steely grey eyes meant _business_. And the hand in his hair shoved him down until he could almost choke on it, without any indication that he thought Spike might push back, or even be _able_ to push back.

For show, he choked a little when it hit the back of his throat. He might as well play human, for now, at least. Wasn’t much interested in killing a warlock, sorcerer, wizard, or mage of any kind, particularly not when he had a load of friends just like him waiting outside. Never let it be said he hadn’t learned from Angelus’ mistakes. He made a performance out of struggling to breathe, but couldn’t quite make his eyes water at the stretch and pressure.

Spike could take, and had taken, bigger cocks than this in his throat. Mostly just the one, but either way, this wasn’t exactly a challenge by itself, although if the bloke fucked a little harder, maybe it could be. He looked up, because he knew how much he liked it when Dru did that to him, sucked him hard and gazed up at him through her filmy eyelashes, and got the same reaction he imagined he always gave when the eye contact hit: A growl and a shudder and that hand fisting in his hair, urging him forward, down to the hilt.

Hey could make this better, so much bloody better, if he could only use his proper tongue, proper teeth. All sharp and delicate and he knew how to scrape them just perfectly — just too lightly to break the skin, just heavy enough to _tingle_ —

But no, wasn’t worth getting staked or cursed just to deliver a better product.

Product was probably the wrong word since he doubted he was getting paid for this. Not that he’d turn down a few quid, but the last person to call him _whore_ had been Angelus and he wasn’t especially keen to change that.

“Hands behind your back,” the bassist choked out, and Spike paused. Narrowed his eyes. It rankled him a little, the idea of taking orders from a human, but on the other hand, with Dru he was always the one steering and he wouldn’t mind a bit of a surprise in his life. He let his hands drag down those warm hips, over the trousers, feeling the muscle there, corded and tense with arousal. Then he let them drop to his sides, and then he slipped them around behind his back, lacing his fingers together just there at the small of it. The bassist sighed and shoved him down onto his prick.

The drink must be slowing the bloke down, because although Spike had been sucking him as best he knew how — which was fairly damn well, he had on good authority — there weren’t those little twitches that preceded orgasm. Just that thick shaft pumping into his mouth, bulging out his cheek, battering at the back of his throat, most like. He ought to be tearing up at the onslaught, he knew that, but he couldn’t bring himself to ruin a good eyeliner job.

Not even for the gorgeous strain in his jaw, hinge popped wide to take a rough fucking. He’d never seen it himself, but he reckoned he looked a treat on his knees, because Angelus had always told him so. These days moreso, he figured, because his hair was less bloody stupid.

For a moment he was grasped with the desire to reach up a hand and slip it around his own neck, to see if he could feel the pounding he was taking from the outside. But no, might as well not see what this bloke’s idea of a punishment was. It couldn’t compare to the ones he’d taken before, of course, but he wasn’t sure he had the patience to let a human give him the old what-for. He could get punished when Dru came back, she’d like a chance to make him bleed.

Just as he began to feel the rush of the orgasm sneaking up on him (telltale signs: the leaking down his throat, the jerking against his soft palate, the moaning and groaning from above) he found himself hauled back by the hair so abruptly he almost snapped his teeth in annoyance.

It always worked for Dru, he thought, and extended his tongue as far as it would go. Just barely shy of the crown of the bassist’s prick. Mouth open, lips probably swollen — maybe from the taste of copper the bottom one was split — and tongue reaching for his prize in vain. The man above him swore, and he knew the sort of sight he probably made. Same one Dru made for him. Pretty and dazed and gagging for it.

“I was thinking about fucking you,” the man panted, “But if you’d prefer to finish what you started, by all means — ”

Spike strained against the grip in his hair to close his lips around the head. There was a strangled groan, and he answered it by sucking sweeter, burring a little hum in his throat. Humans always did taste good here. All warm and alive. He pulled back, and felt a little spark of _something_ in the air around him that made him feel wild. Let his mouth go slack, like the tension had been fucked out of it, before he spoke, a little slurred for effect. “An’ what makes you think I’d let you fuck me?”

The bassist laughed at him. It ought to be humiliating, but the mad glee in the sound made it seem more like a game. His voice was arrogant, and if he didn’t look so young and so mussed with his body leaning back against the dirty sinks, he would probably seem powerful. And probably he _was_ powerful. Just not enough to intimidate Spike. “Oh, you’d let me.”

Sitting back on his haunches, Spike flashed a smile that he knew was a mite too sharp as soon as it had come onto his lips. “Seem confident, pet.”

And there it was. Just what he’d wanted, the predator glint in those grey eyes. Because he didn’t know, of course, that _Spike_ was the predator. Or, if he did, he was awfully brave to stick his prick between these fangs. “Oh, I am.” There was a knee on his chest now, pushing him backwards towards the floor. Not enough to force him down, but enough that he had to flex his stomach muscles to stay upright, shirt climbing up over his navel as his body bent. “Could have you screaming.”

Spike snorted. Better men had tried. Now, admittedly, most of them had been picked out by Dru, and her taste in men was bloody awful — present company excepted — but still. It was the sort of thing you didn’t say to a vampire coiled at your feet, which meant he was passing as human. And apparently, a rather biddable human. Admittedly, he knew the eyeliner and the piercings threw some people off the scent of power.

Should’ve nicked that kid’s choker. He bet his neck would look fantastic in it.

“Big man. Let’s see you try,” he said, smoothly.

♝♝♝

The boy on the floor — and he _did_ look like a boy now, with his mouth used and swollen, his hair tousled from having fingers run through it — had a smile that could cut glass, and Ripper had a nagging feeling that there was something amiss. But then the body bent like a reed under the pressure of his knee, the tattered shirt riding up to reveal sharp hipbones, and he put the matter out of his mind. The blue eyes were lazy and half-lidded, even with his body bowed at this angle, and with the delicate black lines highlighting them, they seemed sultry and feline at once.

“Big man,” the voice came. Lower-class, like he’d come up on the streets, but from the condition of his teeth, Ripper somehow doubted it. “Let’s see you try.”

He had his hands fisted in the wet, clinging shirt before the words even finished coming out of that reddened mouth, hauling him upwards and shoving him back towards the stall where his jacket was hanging haphazardly over the door. The kisses were biting, and as hard as Ripper knew he was being — hands twisted into the shirt that was tearing further audibly under his grip — the man was giving as good as he got, his nails scraping down the sides of Ripper’s throat, heating the skin. There would be marks there tomorrow, most likely. Four thin pink lines on each side to show where those claws had been.

He was short enough that Ripper had to bend down to kiss him, and slim enough that he could be slammed up against the wall of the stall without either of the two of them bumping into the toilet. The wood creaked dangerously under the impact, metal hinges shrieking, and then he was being treated to the same look he’d gotten outside the loo, only this time with bare shoulders. The body leaning against the wall, indolent and confident with his tongue sticking out just enough to show off the piercing in the center of it. Over one pale shoulder, the words FOR A GOOD TIME CALL AILA were carved into the wood, the number presumably obscured by the man pressed against it. “Hear that?” came the voice in his ear, a low-pitched purr at a frequency just right for sending heat up a man’s spine.

“What?”

“Screaming,” said the man, and laughed, at least until Ripper spun him around and pushed him face forward into the now-closed stall door, only saved from the grime of it by the jacket that was hanging there. He made a huffing noise when the air was pushed out of his chest by the impact, but somehow it still sounded smug. Even when Ripper layered himself against his body, shoving his still-hard cock up against the small of his back, just against one of those two little dimples over his arse.

“I’m just getting started.” Then he tore those clinging jeans down to mid-thigh, smirking as a little silver packet fell free from the pocket. When he ripped it open, the liquid inside oozed out, cold and heavy. “Reckon _this_ gives you away, mate,” he whispered, as he stroked two fingers, slick with lube, between the pale globes of the man’s ass. “You came here wanting to be fucked. And fucked _raw_.”

There was a little tremble at that, not one of fear so much as the absent twitching of a body that wanted to be writhing. The hole was tight — as if it didn’t see much use, which was funny considering how easy this had been — but when he pushed, his two fingers squeezed in with a slippery noise, and a deep groan was muffled in the leather against the door. It had to be chilly and uncomfortable, too much too fast, but all that happened was that the man spread his legs as wide as they would go while they were still trapped inside those tight jeans and pushed his arse out like he was begging for it.

“What makes me think you’d let me fuck you?” he asked, as casually as he could manage it, flexing his fingers inside to see the jolt travel up the muscles in front of him. “The same thing that makes me think you’d let _anyone_.”

The man made a sound that sounded mostly like a snarl, and twisted back against him, bearing down to take his fingers in, and when he spread them apart, knowing it was too harsh, the sound broke off with a snap and the hands, silver and black bracelets around the wrists clattering against the door, flew up to hold onto the edge of the wood. If there were words in that noise, they weren’t intelligible, but the way the head dropped between those shoulders, forehead falling against the coat, that was particularly eloquent.

Ripper was feeling the effects of the whiskey and the sex now properly in the way that he didn’t care that there was a toilet behind him or that there was a bloodstain on the wall next to them. His prick throbbed between his legs, wishing it was back in the warmth of that mouth. The lube was beginning to warm itself on his fingers, but slowly. “ _Your place or mine_ ,” he whispered, warm against the shell of the man’s ear. “You say that to everyone you fuck in the toilets?”

The door of the bathroom banged open and someone walked in, but that didn’t stop the man from rasping at him, “Fuck me now or I’m going to put you down and take you on this floor. See who’s screaming then.”

Two fingers wasn’t truly enough, not with how tightly pressed they had been, but there was something enticing about the idea of drawing that scream out while there was someone moving about near the sinks, someone who must know what was happening in here. So he pulled out his fingers and gripped his prick at the base to line it up with that pink, slightly shiny hole, and then pushed in in one steady, brutal thrust. If he hadn’t had three shots of whiskey in him he’d probably have shot off then and there, like a schoolboy; Ethan was never so tight, although he was always warmer.

The man made a muffled sound like he was being gutted at the quick intrusion and his fingers tightened around the top of the door so tightly that there was a faint cracking sound of wood being compressed. The door rattled as Ripper’s body came to rest up against him, pressing him flat against it.

“Get that coat out of your fucking mouth,” he hissed, venomous when he noticed the cheat, the white teeth sunk into the hanging leather sleeve. “If I wanted you gagged I’d have done it myself.”

The man spat out the fabric and opened his mouth to say something back before Ripper pulled out of him and shoved back in, a hard motion that drove his face forward into the door again and knocked the wind out of him. It had to hurt — the grasp around him was too tight, there was a little too much friction — but the man just panted into the leather, shoulders shaking.

Rough, shallow thrusts. He’d been fucked enough himself to know how to keep the pressure on. And, in any case, if he went too hard they’d probably break down the door, given the noises it was making. There was a spell to make it solid, but —

No. Not right now. Right now there was this body twisting underneath him, around him, little punched-out _ah_ sounds coming out on every thrust, and the whole wood frame of the stalls was shaking under the assault.

“Shut the hell up!” said an annoyed voice from outside the door, and it was like a switch had been flipped. Ripper fucked him harder, and all of a sudden, he was speaking. Babbling, in fact, so fast and so strangled that it was almost incoherent.

“Fuck,” he started out swearing, rough accent making the word sound a thousand times filthier than it was. Wailing cries between the words, like he was being stabbed instead of fucked senseless. “Ah, Christ. Do me harder — fuck me, _fuck me_ — _god_ that’s so sweet —”

There was a disgusted noise from outside and the door slammed, and then the man was laughing like a hyena, the smooth channel quivering around him as the body pressed between him and the stall door shook with mirth. “If I were a cruel man I’d count that screaming against you.”

“Not a man at all,” said the man, turning to show him a grin that looked wicked in the dim. “Wouldn’t have to fake it for a man.”

Ripper laughed in his ear, because the shuddering gasps that were being wrung out of him gave that away. He’d been putting on a show, yes, but when Ripper shoved his hand down between the door and their bodies to take his cock in hand, he felt it hard and leaking. _That_ wasn’t faked. As punishment, he started to take deeper thrusts, hard enough to make the wood scream and the man’s hands scrabble desperately against it.

Then, muffled against the leather, harsh and nearly hysterical. “ — _is that all you’ve bloody got_ — ”

He stripped the cock in his hand without much care for the fact that it must be chafing — in his dry hand, against the wood, the head sliding in and out of his fingers — and drove in so viciously that something in the stall frame cracked, and the hinges on the door groaned their disapproval. Ripper liked it when they did what he wanted because they wanted to, but he liked this almost more. When they did it because he _made_ them want it.

When he could feel himself getting close, he sped his thrusts, tightened his grip. To avoid screaming himself, he sunk his teeth into the meat of the man’s shoulder when he unraveled, coming so hard that the stall and the floor almost seemed to tip beneath them.

He couldn’t quite hear the sound his partner made over the ringing in his ears, but he felt him fly apart under the sting of teeth, cock jerking in his hand and then releasing itself over the wood.

“Bloody hell,” was the first thing he heard, panted. He was fairly certain his own body weight was the only thing holding the man up; he was plastered to the door now as if he couldn’t stand without it, which was fairly gratifying. When Ripper pulled out of him, he barely avoided staggering, and after a moment there was a little slip of semen down the man’s leg, barely pink, just before he loosed his grip on the door and fumbled with his trousers to pull them up, heedless of the fact that he was no doubt going to make a mess of the inside of them. “Not bad for a kid,” he said, turning over his shoulder to give another sharp grin, but his eyeliner was a little smeared from having been pressed against the leather and his legs were wobbling.

He was almost too dazed to notice anything but the way those legs bowed and rocked as the man slipped away from him and out of the stall, grabbing his coat on the way, but when he did up his own trousers and sat back on the seat, winded, he looked up and realized that the top of the door was cracked in two places.

What the _hell_ had he just shagged?

**_Sunnydale, California, 2000_**.

☾☾☾

He’d seemed a little familiar to Spike when he’d been all tied up in the mansion, bloody and with his fingers bent double — but not quite enough for Spike to notice. Dru being attached to his face hadn’t helped, and neither had the fact that he was, as always, more focused on Angelus than the idiot Angelus was torturing.

But it wasn’t truly until he came in hot under the collar from the bloody Initiative that he really _realized_ it. The cool voice was different, the appearance couldn’t be more changed. The scent was less smoke and magic and more old books and tea. But the _presence_ , that still had undertones of that danger that he’d felt all over the warlocks that night.

Rupert Giles rolled up his sleeves, and Spike blinked at his forearms — remembering one braced on the wooden door next to his head — and tried not to gape. He pierced him with annoyed eyes, and Spike nearly tasted the metal and the whiskey and the sweat on his tongue again.

Later, when Giles was chaining him into the bathtub, he tried to figure out a dignified way to be the first one to mention it, because the only thing worse than having been shagged silly by one of your enemies was having them make the first crack about it. All in all, though, there wasn’t much that was dignified about having been fucked nearly through a door by a man in his twenties.

Interrupting his thoughts, Giles cleared his throat, and his mouth twitched. “I always did think you’d look spectacular in manacles.”

Bloody hell.


End file.
